


A memory turns into a bad dream

by Elisexyz



Series: Whumptober 2020 (TMFU) [6]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Explosions, Hurt Illya, Hurt/Comfort, Illya Whump, Injury, M/M, Nightmares, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Protective Illya, Some Pining From Napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: For that matter, how long washeunconscious after the explosion? He can’t really tell, can he? His brain seems fine, though: he remembers what happened, he remembers his name and long list of crimes, he can come up with five different ways to annoy Illya off the top of his head, he knows how Gaby likes her coffee, he can clearly picture the look of British reprimand on Waverly’s face—regretfully, he even remembers Sanders and his ugly mug.So, yeah. All fine.Except for the unconscious Russian lying on top of him, of course.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Whumptober 2020 (TMFU) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964011
Comments: 34
Kudos: 186
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	A memory turns into a bad dream

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Waking up restrained" prompt from day 1 of Whumptober (better late than never LOL, this has actually been more or less ready for about a week but I hate titling things, so). I... have not exactly respected the spirit of the prompt, I think, but technically he is waking up and he is restrained by something, and it _is_ whump, so... it should count LOL.  
>  What can I tell you, sometimes you just need to write 3k words of whump and a few overused tropes because why not.  
>  The title is from "Moral of the story" by Ashe, though the song has nothing to do with the fic LOL. Enjoy!

He’s hardly even opened his eyes when he starts coughing, the dust grating against his throat and panic making its way under his skin when he feels something press hard down his chest, pinning him in place and not doing him any favours as he tries not to _suffocate_.

He instinctively turns his head to his right, tries to roll over in spite of the weight on him, and it’s when the fog in his head finally starts clearing that he comes back to himself, remembering what kind of situation he finds himself in: his ears are still ringing from the explosion, the dust hasn’t yet cleared and his back and head _ache_ from getting body slammed by a Russian giant with mother hen tendencies.

Speaking of which— “Peril?” he manages to get out, the attempt immediately resulting in another coughing fit, if brief. His nose is at the height of Illya’s neck, and Illya’s arm on his right his covering his view of the room, where the door is supposed to be, if he remembers correctly.

He takes a breath, coughs only a little, takes it as a good sign.

“Peril?” he tries again, still a little strained. “Now would be a great time to get off of me.”

There’s no answer, because of course there’s no answer, nothing can ever be _easy_ —he can feel him breathing, so there’s that, not much to worry about, but Napoleon would _really_ like to roll over and finally take a deep breath, instead of lying down _crushed_ by his partner’s dead weight—

Alright, alright, just—one thing at the time. He can’t just push him off, if he’s hurt that would probably do more damage. And he should take a look at the room first, see if the exit at least is still there. Also, getting his hands on his radio would be wonderful, assuming it’s still whole.

He removes Illya’s arm from his face, his own arm thankfully easy enough to free, and yes, the door is still where it’s supposed to be, the explosion didn’t tear down the whole building. So, assuming that he can wake Illya up at some point or another, they should be able to walk out of there. Or be carried out. That’s good.

With some more coughing and muttered curses because _god_ is he sore, he quickly tries to check Illya out for injuries, part of him still hoping that he can convince himself to roll him over without worrying too much, because he’d really like some room to _breathe_ now—but no, he reaches for the back of his head and his fingers come back bloody, and he finds he was stabbed by something that Napoleon can’t see. Possibly some rod. It’s too low to have hit a kidney, so there’s that, but it still hammers home that moving him is definitely not the smartest idea.

“Okay, great—” he mutters, quickly realizing that he doesn’t even have any means to try and deal with the bleeding at the moment.

The only saving grace is that he can get his hands on his radio, which seems to have survived the whole ordeal.

“Gaby?”

The answer is pretty much instantaneous, and at too high volume for his tastes. “ _Where_ are _you?! There was an explosion_.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I know. It wasn’t us, though it was probably _for_ us.”

“ _Are you okay?”_ It’s gruff, but he knows her, he can tell that she’s worried.

“Still kicking—well, not literally at the moment, I’m stuck.”

“ _What about Illya? Is he with you?”_

“He’s napping—and he’s mistaken me for a mattress, it would seem.” He pauses, swallowing down a fresh new coughing fit that would probably only worry her further. “I’d rather not shove him off me right now, so if you could send some help—much appreciated. He’s even heavier than he looks, if you can believe it.”

Gaby doesn’t seem too amused nor particularly reassured by his attempts at humour, but she assures that she’ll be right there with help, so there’s that.

Napoleon has never been a big fan of heavy silences, or of sitting still for that matter, and it takes some effort to try and level his breathing, still bitterly thinking of how he’d very much like to take a decent, deep breath, because that line of thought is much better than _worrying_.

Illya will be fine, it’s probably nothing.

“Not back with me yet?” he tries, attempting to eye his face as best as he can given their current positions. Nothing. He pokes him in the cheek, which would normally result in him getting his whole hand bitten off, but still nothing.

How long can someone be unconscious before it starts becoming dangerous anyway?

For that matter, how long was _he_ unconscious after the explosion? He can’t really tell, can he? His brain seems fine, though: he remembers what happened, he remembers his name and long list of crimes, he can come up with five different ways to annoy Illya off the top of his head, he knows how Gaby likes her coffee, he can clearly picture the look of British reprimand on Waverly’s face—regretfully, he even remembers Sanders and his ugly mug.

So, yeah. All fine.

Except for the unconscious Russian lying on top of him, of course.

“I’m not going to feel guilty about any of this,” he warns, sternly. It’s not _his_ fault the bastard has inhuman reflexes. Or suicidal tendencies. “In fact, I’m blaming you for the whole thing. I don’t know how exactly I’m pinning the explosion on you, but—I’ll get creative, you’ll see.” He pauses, swallowing heavily. “Unless you’d like to get off me, then I guess I can be forgiving.”

He spends _forever_ just complaining under his breath about anything that passes through his head, until Illya makes some unintelligible noise and begins shifting over him, slowly waking up.

Napoleon might just start laughing.

“Welcome back, Peril,” he says, eager to catch his attention and make sure that he isn’t _too_ confused about their current situation.

Illya blinks, coughing faintly a few times and squinting at him as if trying to place him. “…Cowboy?”

It doesn’t sound overly confident, but he’ll take it.

“The one and only,” he says, brightly. “Glad to know you haven’t scrambled your brains.”

Illya hums, shifting a little over him as he tries to take a look around. “What happened?” he asks, slowly.

“A wall blew up on us.”

Clearly.

He isn’t sure if those pauses that Illya keeps taking are for dramatic effect or because he’s hit his head too hard to be in any position to process what he’s saying in reasonable time. “Are you alright?” Illya eventually asks, slowly shifting to the right and trying to get his elbow under him to keep himself up.

He snorts. “I’m _splendid_ , and I’d be even better if you _stopped moving_ ,” he says, pointedly, grabbing a handful of Illya’s shirt and tugging at him in a clear request to stay _down_. He supposes he _could_ try to slip out from underneath him without jolting him too much, but it doesn’t seem too smart when there’s help coming. There should probably be some rule somewhere about not leaving injured partners facedown in the dirt just because you’d rather regain your ability to stretch your muscles.

“I’m crushing you,” Illya points out, still too slow.

“Oh, believe me, Peril, I’m into it,” he jokes, and it is not reassuring to notice that Illya is actually holding still, rather than insisting with his ill-advised attempt at getting up. “You are bleeding and probably bruised all over, let’s just stay where we are until help comes, alright? They are on their way, try not to finish yourself off in the meantime.”

There’s a _long_ stretch of silent contemplation, or at least what Napoleon assumes is silent contemplation, but eventually Illya nods and he lets himself fall back on him with his full weight, dragging a surprised _oof_ out of Napoleon when he finds himself crushed once again. Lovely.

“Sorry,” Illya mutters, sounding worryingly sleepy. He can feel him going slack against him, which, no, definitely won’t do.

“No sleeping,” Napoleon says, giving him a slight shake.

Illya hums in acknowledgement, which is _something_ , he supposes.

“Come on, let’s talk,” he insists, his tone as petulant as he can make it. “Keep me company.”

“No.”

Ah, well, monosyllabic answers will do.

“That is cruel and unfair. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart.”

“Hmm.”

“Nope, that’s not right.” He pinches his cheek, trying not to panic when Illya takes a few seconds to sleepily blink at him. “You owe me at least one word.”

“Why?”

“Why do you owe me or why are we here on this Earth?”

“Either.”

“You owe me because I am blessing you with my presence.” It’s good to know that Illya is still present enough to the moment to snort. “And I believe we are here on this Earth to wreak havoc on it. And to steal pretty things, though I admit to doing nothing of the sort since when I’ve been arrested and steered onto a more virtuous path—hey! Eyes open!” Illya ignores him. Great. “Peril?” A couple of pointed shakes get him to hum in protest and eventually blink back into awareness, much Napoleon’s relief.

Illya frowns, beginning to shift as if to push himself up, his eyes darting around. “What happened?” he asks then, which, shit.

“Explosion, stay down, help is coming,” he rattles off, in automatic, keeping a solid hold of his shirt just in case he decides to be stubborn.

Concerningly enough, Illya yields without further protest, only asking “Are you alright?” before slumping back against him. Nothing concerning about any of this at all.

Napoleon keeps trying to make some conversation, this time hellbent on making _sure_ that Illya doesn’t doze off on him.

His new strategy involves a whole lot of poking at his cheek as obnoxiously as he knows how to.

“ _Stop_ ,” Illya growls, gathering enough will to both summon a fierce enough glare, given the circumstances, and try to slap his hand away, with only very mild success.

“Sorry,” Napoleon says, very insincerely. “If you are annoyed you are awake.”

“I hate you,” Illya mutters, but after that he does seem to put some effort into not falling asleep on him. It still doesn’t save Napoleon from having to deal with another confused ‘What happened?’ before Gaby and the whole cavalry finally come, which cannot be good for his emotional wellbeing.

Regardless, when more competent hands than his own get Illya off him, he can’t help relishing in his newfound freedom, taking a deep breath and pushing himself up to a sitting position, only to break into a coughing fit when the air feels more like dust than anything else.

Gaby is blurry, when he gets his eyes on her. She’s crouched next to him, holding onto his arm to keep him up and complaining that he should take it easy, at the same time as some other agent starts questioning him about his injuries.

“No, no, I’m fine, I think,” he quickly says, as soon as he’s gathered himself. He throws a smile Gaby’s way and pointedly ignores the way her eyes keep darting beyond him every few seconds. “Sore as hell, but fine.”

A quick check and he’s deemed safe enough to move.

Gaby helps him up, steadying him when he sways and saying: “Come on, this place might not be stable.”

That kicks his brain into gear, two dots connecting and overriding his instincts to look straight ahead, or better yet in literally any direction that isn’t Illya’s. He turns back to him, his stomach churning and his discomfort growing when he finds that Illya is surrounded and he can hardly see him. What he does gather is that there is a little more work to do there, before they can safely get him out, and Napoleon’s feet are suddenly glued to the ground.

Gaby understands without needing to ask, but she still tugs at him. “They will get him out as soon as they can, but you staring won’t make them work any faster. Let’s go.”

Somehow, he finds himself outside. Oddly enough, the breath of fresh air triggers another coughing fit, which leaves him sore in an annoyingly high number of places, including his arm, because Gaby is _clutching_ it.

He smiles at her, patting her hand. “Don’t worry, I’m fine, I got off easy.”

She stares at him for a few moments, eyes narrowed and her lips pressed tight together. “I noticed,” she eventually says, and he’s willing to bet she’s worried out of her mind.

He doesn’t find much of anything to say.

As they make their way over to yet more people ready to prod at him and ask pointless questions because it’s _procedure_ , Gaby adds: “I expect that from now on, when he does _that_ for me and I kick up a fuss, you won’t make fun of me.” Her tone is half-way between joking and awfully stern, and either Napoleon is growing hysterical or it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in weeks.

“Fair enough,” he concedes, and it comes out tired.

Gaby gives him a little smile, gently squeezing his arm. “He’ll be fine,” she says, like she just knows it.

He’ll take it.

-

There’s an hospital bed, and it’s crushing him, digging into his ribs and making him struggle for every breath. His legs are tangled in the sheets, his arms are stuck at his sides, and for all that he squirms and tries to slip free he _can’t_.

 _Come on, come on, move, let me_ —

He isn’t alone, he realizes with a jolt of panic, turning his head to his left. Illya is right next to him, his head turned away from him, as if to give him a good visual of the concerning amount of blood in his hair. He’s close enough that their shoulders almost brush.

Napoleon wiggles his arm free, trying to grab him, finding that Illya is _just_ out of reach, that no matter how far he stretches his arm, he can only brush his shoulder with his fingertips, and _why_ won’t he turn around—

He wants to call out, but there’s no air for it, the bed pushes him farther down and he gasps, pain shooting through his neck as he turns again, watches Illya, tries to reach him, can’t call out, can’t _breathe_ —

Breathing he does, coming to with a sharp inhale and the pain running through his neck very much real, because apparently he fell asleep in a hospital chair in a not particularly comfortable position.

He takes a few experimental breaths, running a hand over his chest as if to make sure that everything is still in order. Illya is sleeping, close enough that if he reached out he could grab his hand, looking every bit as peaceful as Napoleon _should_ have been, while finally managing to take a nap. He spares a moment to glare at the bed, damn thing haunting him in his nightmares.

He swallows, his restlessness still not quite dissipated, crawling under his skin as he takes a few deliberate breaths and feels the ridiculous urge to just—speak.

Illya isn’t moving, he’s obviously asleep, he shouldn’t make any noise, but—he kinda needs to make sure that everything is alright. It’s stupid, but, well, there’s no one to hear.

“Peril,” he says, quietly, relief washing through him when his voice comes out without effort.

“I’m awake,” Illya says then, opening his eyes and making Napoleon literally _jump_ on his seat, his heart leaping in his throat.

“What— _Jesus_ , Peril, I thought you were sleeping!”

Illya hums. “Only resting.”

Napoleon lets out a slow breath, hopefully sounding more annoyed than terrified out of his mind. “Right, well, you _should_ be resting. You look like crap.”

Honestly, it’s not that bad: he’s seen him worse, and at least his eyes seem present enough to the moment, rather than confusedly darting around and failing to focus on Napoleon as he speaks. He isn’t even too pale, nor does he have enormous bags under his eyes like the ones that Napoleon can feel digging through his own skin. He needs some decent sleep.

Illya snorts. “You should look in a mirror, Cowboy.”

Fair, but also _totally_ unfair.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t been exactly _relaxed_ , in case you were wondering,” he says, accusingly. “Next time, do me a favour and just dive for cover.”

Illya raises his eyebrows. “I did.”

Napoleon might just kill him. After torturing himself so much over what could have happened, he is going to _murder him in cold blood_. It’s not like he’s getting any sleep ever again anyway.

“I didn’t mean cover for _me_ , you insufferable—” he cuts himself off, catching sight of Illya’s small grin at his blow-up and feeling himself deflating. “You know what? Nevermind, I bet you are having plenty of regrets of your own right now.”

“None.”

He snorts. “Oh, you _will_ once you start getting bored of lying in bed.”

“I doubt it.”

Illya looks very sure of himself in an oddly matter-of-fact way, like he’s just voicing a known truth of the universe, and this is _stupid_ , because _Napoleon_ is the one with the awkward crush on his partner, _he_ should be the one pulling stupid shit like this—except he supposes that what for him is a stupid stunt that he’d pull for less people than he can count on one hand, for Illya is just the first thing that runs through his mind as a way to do damage control.

‘Let’s pretend like I’m made of metal, what could go wrong?’

“You should pay for my sleeping pills,” Napoleon mutters, crossing his arms to be more comfortable as he sags a little in the chair, his knees pressed against Illya’s evil bed.

Illya hums. “You should go home.”

Yeah, that sounds like a recipient for disaster. He gets the feeling that jolting awake in the middle of an empty apartment would be even less of a pleasant experience than this.

“I’ve grown quite fond of this chair. And I need to be here when you will try to convince the doctors to discharge you, so that I can help them strap you to that bed.” 

Illya snorts. “You could try,” he just says. Napoleon isn’t so sure that his confidence is misplaced, honestly.

Illya stares at him thoughtfully for a few moments, then he begins pushing himself up, apparently tired of lying down, which sends Napoleon right on his feet, ready to make sure that he doesn’t make any damage to fix his pillow up or something. When he start to pull back, Illya grabs his sleeve.

“There’s room for two,” he says, firmly. Napoleon notices then that, in all his jostling to push himself up, he scooted a little farther to his right.

Still, there isn’t _that_ much room.

“I’m not sharing your _hospital bed_ ,” he says, snorting in disbelief. He’s pretty sure that’s a bad idea on more than one level. Starting with the fact that his brain is short-circuiting even _thinking_ about it.

“That chair looks horrible,” Illya points out, evenly. “It is this or you go home.”

Napoleon raises his eyebrows. “Do you plan on dragging me out?”

“I can say that you are bothering me.”

Yeah, alright, that—would work. The nurses are already growing tired of him. Dammit.

“You need space,” is his only defence.

“I _have_ space,” Illya says, pointedly. He tugs at him. “Come on.”

This is a terrible idea.

Nevertheless, he gets out an exasperated ‘Fine’ and he slides next to him, taking up half of the pillow and leaving half of his left leg outside of the mattress, in an attempt at not stealing too much space. “Happy now?” he asks, though he doesn’t come out all that confident.

Illya hums in acknowledgement, shifting a little and pressing his arm harder against Napoleon’s, and this position is—so stupidly impractical.

“Alright, wait, let me just—” he mutters, slowly getting his arm free to rest it on the pillow behind them. Which incidentally also means that he has his arm around Illya’s shoulders. Ah, well. Needs must.

Illya doesn’t protest, actually leaning against him, probably finding him more comfortable than a common pillow. Flattering. And a little alarming. He thinks he has forgotten how to swallow.

He wants to make a joke, teasingly ask him if he’s comfortable, do _something_ to break out of this awkward bubble, but—damn him, he quite likes said bubble. Maybe, if he doesn’t talk, it will keep floating for a while.

(It’s unfortunate that there’s a little corner of his mind taking advantage of the situation to whisper that _maybe_ he can _have_ this, even when he isn’t still working through the aftershocks of some terrifying close-call and Illya isn’t high on whatever it is that they gave him, but, well, what matters is that he knows it’s a lie. And it’s a sweet one, so maybe he can let it be, just this once, just for a while.)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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